Slowly and steadily I poured my heart into it. Drop by drop it trickled down my temple, my cheek, my weary jaw. Down I was on bended knees, hands down, head down, mouth agape gasping for air. Broken, bruised, beaten, I stick by it through the thick and thin— against adversities, against all odds, against my own better judgement. I wished I could have done things better, another pinch of hard work here, an extra dash of creativity there, or something. In the quietness of my solitude, I would stare at him— that broken, bruised, beaten doll— staring back at me. He was no stranger. Every shade on him told a familiar story; some tragic, some comedic, some a perfect blend of both. However, his face, wrinkled with that smile he made so often, betrayed his inner bliss. Now though, he was a changed man. His brows furrowed, his eyes glazed with tears, his mouth drooped, all tinged with remorse and worry. Through gritted teeth he laboured to utter a plea for encouragement, albeit to no avail. His voice stammered, his arms quivered, his soul battered. Poignancy thus turned my face away. Down! On the floor! Oh! I saw my arms quivering.
